


Going, Going ... Gone

by MorganOfTheFey



Series: OTP: Coat-Coat, Murder [8]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Eventual Happy Ending, I'll add an archive warning for that when we get to it, Other, So much angst, Thoughts of Suicide, Yikes, a bit of violence but it's not that graphic honestly, agender!sole survivor, anyway, oh wait it does get graphic at the end, or am I just desensitized?, they/them pronouns used to refer to my SS, this is going to hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 01:31:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5563627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorganOfTheFey/pseuds/MorganOfTheFey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt I was tagged in by nick-valentine-fanclub on tumblr: Hancock thinks he's gone feral and runs away, leaving the SS to try to find him and bring him back. So here's some really heavy pain and angst for you sinnamon rolls who want to suffer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Punching Danse in the Face

**Author's Note:**

> Standard reminder that Scout is agender and uses they/them pronouns. Hancock does drugs bc he's Hancock. Danse isn't an especially good guy in this fic, but he is canonically a super mega jerk to Hancock, so I think I handled him as fairly as possible. I'm just guessing that this fic will end up being five chapters, no promises. 
> 
> Rated M because there is some violence right now, plus lots to come later. Also triggers of thoughts of suicide and dehumanization, which I think deserve more than a T rating. Might up the rating to E at the very end, depending on how bad it gets.

Hancock took another Mentat, the fifth in an hour. He'd been restless all week, actually hoping some settlement would get raided so he'd have an excuse to go fuck someone up. Maybe it had been a slow week. Maybe Scout had been spending it helping Danse make modifications to his power armor. Maybe the two were grinning wide after a tricky bit finally worked and Scout was teaching Danse how to high five. Hancock fumbled in his coat pocket for an inhaler of Jet. He normally kept that little habit for behind closed doors, but fuck if he didn't need to get high _right now_ after seeing the shy, blushing looks Danse kept sending Scout.

He flicked the cap off the inhaler and brought it up to his mouth as Scout ducked behind the power armor frame to work on something else, still not noticing his presence. Danse cocked his head like a goddamn drug dog though and looked up to see Hancock leaning against the workstation on the other side of the room. Hancock didn't even bother to hide his animosity, making direct eye contact as he took a deep inhale. Danse's eyes narrowed in fury and he stalked over to the ghoul, whose whole body lit up with the drug and the chance to move, to hit, to _fight_.

“That contraband will not be tolerated in my workshop,” Danse hissed, keeping his voice low so as not to draw Scout's attention.

Hancock tossed the inhaler aside with deliberate carelessness and exhaled the Jet smoke back out in Danse's face. Fuck him and that “my workshop” bullshit. Everyone in this neighborhood died and made Scout God of all the property here, not him.

“You only get high because you know you're inadequate,” Danse said through gritted teeth, then straightened up from towering over the shorter man. “I'm leaving now because Scout actually needs me.”

Hancock heard something snap in his mind, the sound he imagined Danse's neck would make when he broke it. He kicked the other man in the kneecap without any preamble. Danse staggered down, not quite falling but definitely stumbling. Hancock took advantage of that, knocking his feet out from under him. The soldier had quicker reflexes than Hancock expected from someone locked up in power armor all the time and managed to grab the ghoul on his way down. They both landed on their sides, and the fall jarred Danse's knee. He was used to continuing through pain, but Hancock was faster than any human could be and lunged on top of Danse before the soldier could recover. 

Hancock punched Danse hard, once, twice—the soldier hit him in the ribs but he couldn't even feel it—a third time and a forth—someone was shouting and there was blood smeared across Danse's pretty boy fucking face—fifth and—the crack of a gunshot but no pain—

“John, stop!”

The use of his real first name made Hancock pause for only a split second, but it was long enough for Danse to knock him off. His face throbbed, scrambled back to his feet, blood in his eyes but blood on the other man too, get the knife and there'd be even more—

Someone caught him from behind in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his chest before Hancock could draw the weapon. His hands clawed uselessly at the metal arms locked in place around him. The person holding him said something, trying to tell him to calm down, but the only voice that registered in his head was Scout's.

“You just thought what?” they demanded.

That question didn't seem like it was directed at him, but the feeling that he deserved to be shouted at started to creep inside his thoughts. Who else was here? He couldn't see. Everything was red. Was it there blood in his eyes or had his entire vision gone red? He blinked several times and the workshop finally came into focus. Scout, yelling at a settler with a gun in his hand. Must have been the one who shot at him. Bad aim.

“There was this ghoul attacking that guy, and I thought …” the settler tried to defend himself.

“His name is Hancock,” Scout snapped. “Get out. I'll handle this.”

The settler cast one more fearful look toward the synth barely restraining the angry ghoul before hurrying away. Hancock sagged in Nick's arms. Scout never let anyone refer to him as “the ghoul.” They always insisted that he had a name, even the very first time they'd run into the Brotherhood at that old police station, with Scout throwing themself between him and the barrel of Danse's gun.

“Realized you've fucked up yet?” Nick murmured.

Hancock didn't have a sarcastic reply. He was aware of Danse leaning back against the far wall, but he couldn't look directly at the smoothskin without the rage thrumming back through his body. The Jet had slowed down the entirety of their brawl, but now reality was kicking back in hard.

Scout turned to glare between the two men. “What was that?”

“He was getting high in my workshop and when I confronted him about it, he attacked me,” Danse immediately narced.

“If you got a fucking deed to this property, I'd love to see it,” Hancock sneered back.

“All right stop,” Scout said. They swiped a handset radio off the workstation and pushed down on the button. “Curie, please come to the workshop. Danse has some injuries that need to be looked at, over.”

“Oui,” the radio replied, then, “Oh, yes. Over. I almost forgot, over … over.”

Scout sighed and put the radio back down, crossing their arms. “Danse, you're going to stay here and think about what you said because I'm absolutely certain you said some condescending crap to provoke this.”

Danse started to protest, but Scout ignored him and turned to Hancock next.

“And you,” they said. “are now banned from the workshop because I also totally believe that you did start the fight and Danse needs the workshop to make repairs to his power armor. You can just hang out somewhere else.”

Hancock felt bitterness flood through his like the chem had a few minutes ago. Scout's default location in Sanctuary was almost always the workshop, and it had to be passed through to get to their room. All they'd basically done was make their own little club room for themself and Danse, no Hancocks allowed.

“Fine,” he bit out. “Let go, Nick.”

“You sure—”

“I ain't allowed in here anymore, didn't you hear?” Hancock said, his voice a deeper growl than usual. “So unless you wanna walk me to the door like this, let go.”

Nick's processors whirred for a moment as he seriously considered actually doing just that.

“Let him go, Nick,” Scout said with another sigh.

The synth unlocked his arms, and Hancock jerked out of the embrace, tugging on the lapels of his coat to make it sit right again. Scout fixed him with a worried look and stepped toward him like they might say something, but Hancock brushed past them on his way out. They grabbed his arm, and for a split second, the anger was back, pulsing through him like a second heartbeat. Horror followed quick on its heels though, crashing over Hancock at the realization that, no matter how briefly, he had wanted to _hurt_ Scout.

Hancock jerked his arm away. “I'm fine.”

He quickened his stride as he walked away, heading straight for the house he'd claimed as his own directly across the street from the workshop, letting the front door slam behind him. If he looked through the living room window, he could still see into the workshop, and he had a sick feeling that's what he would be reduced to—watching the person he loved talk to and hang out with some beautiful, beefy smoothskin while he spied on them like some kind of creep. Military, moral, abso-fucking-lutely mundane, Danse was everything Scout had said Nate was like. Of course they would like him better and be impressed by his power armor and fall in lo—

The dresser smashed into the floor, and Hancock stood blinking down at it, not even conscious of having thrown it. He dug back into his coat with shaking hands that made the Mentat tin rattle as he lifted it to his mouth and tilted the aluminum back, swallowing all the little tablets still left inside. Med-X was next, thankfully stored in the nightstand next to the bed and not the dresser. He slid the needle into his arm with practiced ease, pressed the plunger all the way down, and fell onto the bed. His fingers clutched at the bedsheets, then slowly loosed as the chem pumped through him, taking everything away.

*******

His head still pounded when he woke up. How hard had Danse hit him? Hancock sat up with a groan, freezing when the hand propping himself up touched dirt and grass. Where the fuck had he woken up at this time? He looked around, vision still blurry and his surroundings not registering as anything but meaningless blobs of color. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds before blinking them back open again, the scene in front of him swimming into focus.

Dead person. Covered in blood, neck twisted at an unnatural angle, laying right next to him. Hancock lurched up to his feet, scanning the forest for the threat. He started to reach back behind him for the knife he always kept tucked away, but the movement caught his eye. Blood. There was blood on his hands. His head hurt, but he didn't feel like he'd been shot or stabbed anywhere.

Hancock looked back down at the body. Claw marks all over the poor woman, but too small to be an animal, more like—his eyes darted back to his hands again. He swallowed hard and tasted blood. Waking up in strange places wasn't unusual for him, and tasting blood when he did hadn't raised too many alarms since Danse had walloped him pretty hard in the face. But when he raised the back of his hand to his chin, there was more blood there. Dripping from his hands and chin, dead woman torn apart at his feet, what happened—can't remember—the anger pounding in him, so much anger—what _happened_ —how did he get here can't remember anything _what the fuck happened_?

The settler, the one who had shot at him. He'd seen Danse and him fighting and had made the assumption that Hancock had been another feral ghoul, somehow broken into Sanctuary and attacking people, and Scout had been so mad at that settler, it wasn't fair to assume that, they'd insisted he had a name—

Hancock fell to his hands and knees and retched. This was what going feral felt like.


	2. Begging for Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hold onto your hearts for this one, because Hancock makes it to Goodneighbor and begs Fahrenheit for death. Just as horribly angsty as it sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for suicidal thoughts, wanting to die, et cetera.

Hancock staggered through the tunnel beneath Goodneighbor. It had been one hell of a trip from Sanctuary to Goodneighbor with no backup and only a knife. He knew he should have told Scout first, turned around from that dead woman and marched straight back into the workshop to confess what he'd done. God knew, if he had to pick a last view, he'd choose Scout's face.

Except not the disappointment. Hancock shuddered—or maybe that was a shiver—at the fear and disgust he imagined would cloud Scout's beautiful face if he told them he'd gone and went feral. And Danse. He'd be so fucking smug. The anger was still there, giving him strength to keep moving, but it was dulled by how exhausted he felt. At this point, he could hardly muster up enough energy to be mad at even the tin can.

What he really should have done was take care of the problem himself. He had a knife and his skin might be leathery and scarred, but it had veins beneath it like everyone else. Fuck though, he didn't want to die alone. That'd been his problem the first time, wanting it to end but being too much of a coward to go all the way through. He just didn't want to die alone. It was selfish of him to risk other people's lives, going from Sanctuary to Goodneighbor when he could have had another feral episode at any time, but that's why the journey took so long. He stuck to the forest and avoided roads, took the supply tunnels going in that no one else knew about.

Fahrenheit would get the job done. She would fix this. He just had to make it to the door. He had to—Hancock blinked and looked up when he heard footsteps. The door. He was already leaning against the damn door. How long had he been half-collapsed here? He looked back at the long tunnel stretching out behind him and shuddered. He didn't remember walking that distance. Another blank spot in his mind, like someone had put out their cigarette on one of those old film reels. A whole scene, burned out. 

He didn't want to put the person on the other side of the door in danger, but the Watch had guns. They were loyal enough to do their jobs, but he didn't think any of them would exactly hesitate to put him down if he attacked them. The ghouls knew the score and the humans were pretty scared of him already. So he banged on the door and shouted with a hoarse voice.

Banging. Shouting. Noise.

…

“—and whatever stims we've got, now!”

Hancock cracked his eyes open. What …? Goddamn his memory. Of course he didn't know what fucking happened. Everything was moving too fast. He shut his eyes, but that only make the swaying motion feel worse.

“Stop struggling.”

Hancock opened his eyes. He knew that voice. Fahrenheit. She would—but fuck, she didn't know. And was she carrying? Why the hell was she carrying him?

“M'fehal,” he croaked.

Fahrenheit kept striding at a brisk pace, her mayor held bridal style in her arms. “Just a little farther, and we'll—”

Hancock tried again. “I'm feral.”

“—the doc's place for—”

He weakly slapped her chest to get her attention. “I'm fucking feral!”

Fahrenheit finally stopped and looked down at him. He forced himself to meet her eyes, but her expression was blank. She still didn't understand.

“Gone feral,” he insisted. “M'a danger to society. You … you gotta put me down.”

Fahrenheit considered him for another moment, eyes as deep and still as Swan Lake. Then she nodded and began walking forward again, straight back to business.

“Your crash room,” she said. “Best place to do it. Can't risk anyone finding out I shot the mayor down here. It'll sound bad no matter what I say. Get you up there, have a talk with the doc, tell everyone you OD'd. Still suspicious, but better than me trying to smuggle your corpse out of a tunnel that isn't supposed to exist.”

Hancock finally relaxed, letting his head drop to her chest. That sounded good. His crash room wasn't much, just a mattress, a sink, and some boarded up windows, but it was still his space. Fahrenheit would be there. She'd fix this. He wouldn't be alone. Dying of an overdose in his crash room was how everyone expected him to go out anyway.

“Tell Scout I'm sorry,” he mumbled.

If he hadn't been so exhausted, he might have noticed a hitch in Fahrenheit's stride, but the darkness rushed back to swallow him up again.

*******

Hancock woke up on a familiar mattress. He almost felt better until his memory actually kicked in for once and reminded him what had happened over the last three days. Or, most of what had happened anyway. There were still those blank spots around the trip down to Goodneighbor and before that, when he killed—

“… hey.” 

His voice came out at barely above a whisper. He groaned as he pushed himself up to his hands and knees. His coat was gone and so was the flag he wore as a belt. Even his goddamn boots were missing. There was a tin cup of water next to the mattress on the floor. People who were going to be shot in the head didn't get cups of water. Hancock forced himself to his feet and staggered over to the door. Just to be sure, he tried the knob. It was locked, thank God. But the door was only shitty wood. If he went full feral, he might be able to break through.

“Hey!” he called, voice loud enough to be heard this time. “Fahrenheit!”

Clothes rustling, then floorboards creaking. Sounded like someone had been sitting near the door. Where was his bodyguard? They had a plan. It had been a good plan.

“Yeah, Hancock?” Fahrenheit's voice came through the door, almost sounding bored.

“What the fuck?” he growled back at her.

“Was hoping you'd tell me, boss.”

“I'm fucking feral! It's pretty goddamn simple.”

“If you're cognizant enough to argue with me about being feral, then you're not feral, you asshole.”

“Cognizant,” Hancock sneered back in a mocking tone. “Who's been teaching you big girl words?”

“Get as nasty as you want,” she replied, still bored. “Just means I won't feel sorry for you when the shakes hit.”

Hancock paused, doing mental math about the last time he'd had a hit. Before and after his fight with Danse. Three days ago. Damn miracle he wasn't jonesing yet, but it seemed like a full inhaler of Jet, a tin of Mentats, and an entire vial of Med-X had been strong enough to tide him over for a long weekend of straggling through the ruins.

“You're just going to leave me in here?” he asked. “I killed a woman, Fahr.”

She was silent for a moment before she asked, “Where?”

“Not sure. Body's in the forest somewhere north of Sanctuary.”

“Did you use your knife?”

“No. My—” Hancock's voice cracked. “My uh, hands. And teeth.”

“Then even if the body's found, no one can prove it was you. I'll send someone—”

“What? I killed someone, you can't cover that up!” Hancock shouted.

“Sit tight and let me handle this.”

“Just—” He hit the door. “—kill—” Another hard pound. “—me!”

“Whatever you took, sleep it the fuck off, boss.”

Then she wouldn't respond to him, no matter how much he screamed and kicked at the door.

*******

“This is Radio Freedom, with a message from Goodneighbor to Sanctuary.”

Scout practically lunged for the radio. Hancock had been missing for three days now with nothing. No note, no messages, no distress signals—absolutely nothing. No one else seemed to be that worried about it. The general consensus was that he'd headed off on a bender after his little spat with Danse, with darker mutters that maybe he'd just left.

“This is Sanctuary,” Scout spoke into the microphone. “Report.”

“Fahrenheit has sent word that she has the mayor in her care and requests your immediate presence at—”

Scout left the headset dangling as they ran out of the workshop, already on their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Scout have to be the one to put Hancock down? Will he even survive coming off of years and years of continuously being high? Will Fahrenheit ever follow orders?
> 
> FIND OUT NEXT TIME ON ANGST CENTRAL!


	3. Solving the Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scout's investigations start to uncover what's really going on behind Hancock's feral episodes ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some descriptions of pretty graphic violence at the end of this chapter, so trigger warnings for that and maybe body horror, but that's only discussed in dialogue and not shown "on screen." Still warnings for drug use and abuse.

“What do you have, Nick?”

The radio crackled for a moment before the synth's voice came through. “I scanned the bite marks on the vic, just to confirm they didn't come from an animal. But it got me thinking.”

Scout bounced their knee up and down. “Yeah?”

“Curie insisted on giving everyone a physical when she first got here, including Hancock. I can transmit the bite marks to you, and she can download them when she gets there.”

Scout added tapping their pen to the impatient movement of their leg. “So?”

“She still has the data of Hancock's physical, including his dental records. Used to be a big thing back—”

“I know,” they interrupted. “Dental records, pre-war, I was there. You think she can compare the two and prove it wasn't Hancock?”

Static came in for another long moment before Nick spoke. “She can give you a confirmation.”

“That it wasn't Hancock.”

“… right.”

Scout gritted their teeth against making a noise that would have bordered on a snarl. Fahrenheit was the only other person who believed Hancock hadn't gone feral. Even Nick clearly wasn't convinced. So what if Hancock had been acting increasingly aggressive up until he attacked Danse? So what if Dogmeat had tracked Hancock's scent from Sanctuary to a dead body in the woods that had been half eaten? So what if Hancock had showed up at Goodneighbor with blood under his nails, raving that he'd killed a woman? Just because literally all of the evidence pointed to a conclusion didn't mean it was true.

Scout sighed and let their head thunk forward onto Hancock's desk. At least they were in Goodneighbor with him now. “With him” meaning sleeping in his office while he stayed locked up in a boarded up supply closet, alternating between screaming bloody murder and puking his guts out. But he was nearby and still alive, which was something.

Maybe he had gone feral. If so, Scout would do what needed to be done. But they were going to make god _damn_ sure that's what was going on before they did.

*******

The next three days passed in a blur of puking and shaking for Hancock. The effects—and therefore nasty side effects—of chems might be muted ghouls, but he was coming off of more years than he could remember of continuously being high. He was pissing and sweating and puking out enough chems and toxins to OD a smoothskin by smell alone.

And through it all, he kept hearing Scout's voice, feeling soft hands lift his head up for a drink of water, a warm body staying next to his … but that couldn't be possible because his brain was rotting away and he was going feral. Scout wasn't really there. It was just a hallucination.

*******

Scout paced next to the dirty mattress on the floor that Hancock lay on. They'd put him on regular treatments of Addictol to help with the withdrawal, but puking for three days straight had strained his stomach muscles so much that he'd been in constant pain, unable to even hold down water. Curie said the vomiting was caused by anxiety as much as, if not more so, than the withdrawal symptoms, but he hadn't been coherent enough to either understand or believe Scout when they told him they were there and everything would be fine. Eventually they'd caved and given him a small dose of Med-X, the vial and amount pre-approved by Curie, just so he could rest.

Curie beeped, and her eye stalk moved away from Hancock's head.

“Well?” Scout immediately demanded. “How's his brain?”

“All of his gray matter remains intact and appears to be unaffected by any radiation,” Curie said.

Scout sat down hard on the wooden floor next to Hancock's mattress. He was so out of it, he didn't stir, even when they reached out and gripped his hand. They had been right. He wasn't feral. They'd tried to explain to their other companions that ghouls wouldn't just randomly turn feral. Either the initial radiation burned through parts of their brain or it didn't and they gained enough rad resistance for that to never be a possible issue again. Maybe some of the really old, pre-war ghouls went insane, but that was from living for far longer than people were meant to, watching the whole world die and change in front of them.

“However,” Curie continued, and Scout's heart nearly stopped. “His symptoms shouldn't be this bad. Even considering the severity of his previous chem abuse, ghouls have a much higher tolerance and are almost completely unable to get addicted—physically speaking, of course. Psychologically, anything can become a crutch, which can—”

“Do you think his behavior could have been caused by whatever is also causing this reaction?” Scout asked.

“It's possible,” Curie said. “I think examining what he had been taking would provide the most insight into his condition. At this point, I believe the most likely scenario is that he accidentally consumed a particularly bad batch of chems, but they would have had to have been regularly ingested to produce these results.”

Scout looked up at Fahrenheit. “Check his coat and tell Nick to check his stash at Sanctuary.”

“He was in your settlement for two weeks,” Fahrenheit replied. “Whoever did this to him was living there or nearby.”

“Oh!” Curie bobbed up in the air anxiously. “You think his chems were deliberately tampered with?”

“Dogmeat found two more scents near the body,” Scout said. “And Nick spotted footprints too, sunk deep enough in the mud to suggest whoever left them was carrying something heavy. Someone could have killed that woman and planted him near her body, especially if they loaded up his chems to knock him out beforehand.”

“You gonna deal with them?” Fahrenheit asked.

“I will,” Scout answered, voice hard. “But I'm staying here until Hancock wakes up. I sent Preston with Dogmeat to track down those scents. Nick is already checking things out in Sanctuary.”

Fahrenheit stared at them for a long moment, and the Sole figured she was going to yell at them for not going out and avenging Hancock themself. But then she nodded.

“Fine,” she said. “He was in a pretty bad place when he got here. You might have to talk him down from doing anything stupid when he wakes up. Don't let him near glass or shoelaces.”

Scout gave her a nod back, even as their heart broke a little over that kind of advice being necessary. “I'll watch over him.”

“Is there anything more I can do to aid Monsieur Hancock?” Curie asked as the bodyguard left the room.

“If you could keep us stocked up with water and analyze any chems Fahrenheit finds in his coat, that would be great,” Scout said.

“I will come in to provide one ounce of mutfruit juice for him to drink every hour,” Curie said.

Scout frowned. “That doesn't sound like enough. Doesn't he need lots of fluids to stay hydrated?”

“Too much will make him puke again,” Curie replied. “He should only consume what he will be able to keep down. We'll have to work him back up to intaking larger amounts of fluid, and then food, gradually. I do hope no one intentionally tried to hurt le maire.”

Scout squeezed Hancock's hand in their own. “If someone did, I'll handle it.”

*******

Hancock stopped throwing up a day later, but only because he entered a sleep so deep that Scout asked Curie three times if he hadn't went into a coma, to which she kindly explained each time that his body simply needed to rest after such a traumatic experience. Eventually the robot told Scout that she couldn't concentrate on analyzing the one remaining Mentat Fahrenheit had found wedged in the back of Hancock's tin if Scout kept asking her questions. They retreated back to Hancock's bedside after that, rubbing his head and smoothing over the scarred ridges of his face when he twitched and groaned from nightmares.

Curie delivered her news first. Both the remaining Mentat and the empty Jet inhaler Nick found in the workshop showed signs of being tampered with. The Mentat was partly some kind of powdered form of Psycho, most likely made by crushing up a regular Mentat, mixing it with the powder, and then reforming the Mentat into its normal tablet shape. Curie described the possible mental effects as restlessness, aggression, and paranoia with physical side effects of increased blood pressure, higher energy, and muscle twitches.

Scout almost had to use Hancock's bucket to throw up. Nick was the only other person who could remember, to recognize what that was. Pre-war drugs, before all the plants died or mutated from radiation and chems got popular.

“Please breathe with me,” Curie told Scout, making exaggerated whirring noises to imitate breathing. “Exhale one, two, three … inhale one, two, three … exhale one, two, three.”

Scout forced themself to breathe the way she wanted and waved her off after a minute. “I'm fine. What they used, it sounds like a pre-war drug I know. Called it cocaine, basically powdered Psycho like you said.”

“Are you … familiar with its side effects?” Curie asked slowly.

“Yeah.”

Scout didn't elaborate beyond that, but Curie pushed for more.

“Would it account for the increased aggression like I theorized?”

Scout gritted their teeth. “Yes. When you—it makes you focused. Nice if you want to rearrange all your furniture six inches to the left five different times in an hour, but if you go into it mad, it'll—fuck.”

Curie flinched back away from the Sole, as much as the robot could. She was aware some of the other companions had dirty mouths, but she'd never heard Scout say such a filthy word.

Scout took a deep breath and continued. “It's a stimulant. Nick said the whole tin was empty, but I'd heard Hancock shaking it earlier that day. It had to have at least five or six still in it, and there was a vial of Med-X on the bed, plus the Jet in the workshop, and—”

“Breathe, Scout,” Curie reminded them. “It's inhale one, two, three and exhale one, two three. Inhale one, two three. Exhale one, two, three.”

“Cocaine is a stimulant and Jet and Med-X are both a depressant,” Scout mumbled, still hunched over with their head between their knees next to Hancock's mattress as he slept.

“Yes, it is quite a miracle that le bon maire is still alive,” Curie said.

Scout made a whimpering noise and the robot realized perhaps that wasn't as encouraging as she thought it sounded.

“And his heart hasn't stopped the whole time he's been under observation!” she added. “Monsieur Hancock is very strong.”

Scout didn't want to think about Hancock needing to be strong, pushing himself to walk through the wastes and ruins all the way down to Goodneighbor, unarmed and coming down from a nasty high. Why hadn't he come to them? Did he think they'd just shoot him and be done with it, no questions asked?

“Robot,” Fahrenheit said, stepping into the room. “Go down to the kitchen and fix Scout something to eat.”

“Oui, of course.”

“Her name is Curie,” Scout said looking up.

Fahrenheit ignored that. “Preston caught up with the two men. One died in the fight, but he has the other. I'm heading out to go pick him up.”

Scout let go of Hancock's hand to clutch at the sheets instead. The man who had done this to their best friend. They wanted to march out and drag that man back themself, but for once, a stronger emotion than vengeance held them back. Fahrenheit was loyal and cared for Hancock deeply, but she wasn't the most emotionally comforting person. Hancock would need someone to explain what happened when he woke up, someone to tell him he wasn't feral, he was still a person, his life still _mattered_. Scout exhaled slowly and lifted their head to make eye contact with the bodyguard.

“I'll watch over Hancock here,” they said. “When you bring that man back, do me a favor and stick him in a very small room. Lock the door. And wait two days. Give him water, but no food.”

Fahrenheit raised an eyebrow. “Just gonna starve him? Figured you'd get more creative than that.”

Scout smiled back at her. “I am. Cut off his leg on the third day, below the knee. Send someone to get me. I'll cook it, serve it to him, and see if I can get him to eat himself, one piece at at time. Twenty caps says he will.”

“This gonna be an ongoing thing with the rest of his limbs?” Fahrenheit asked.

“Yep.”

“Twenty caps says he'll bite the first time, but wimp out on the second leg,” Fahrenheit countered.

Scout shook their head. “Nah. What he did was cowardly and twisted. Man like that will do anything to survive.”

Fahrenheit leaned against the doorframe. “But will he know it's his own leg?”

“Oh yeah,” Scout said. “I won't disguise it or anything. I want him to know exactly what he's eating, and I want it to actually be a really good meal. I bet Daisy has some seasoning she'll let me use. I want that starving part of him to _enjoy_ eating his own leg.”

Fahrenheit appraised the Sole for a moment. “Fucking sick. Consider it done.”

She left the room and Scout crawled onto the mattress with Hancock, spooning his sleeping body from behind. He twitched again, but his muscles relaxed when they wrapped their arms around him and pulled him close, one hand on his chest right over his heart to feel it beating. Just to make sure.

“Not going to let anyone hurt you, honey,” Scout whispered to him, placing a light kiss on top of his head. “You're mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So is Scout actually going to feed the man to himself? Who is this mystery man anyway? How will Hancock react to the news when he wakes up?? This broadcast has switched from angst central to 24/7 fluff!


	4. Getting Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scout explains to a (sober and v grumpy) Hancock what's *really* been going on with him lately and then they cuddle. Don't worry, the angst will come back next chapter with the revenge scene ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty light and fluffy, so I don't think any trigger warnings are needed for once. But if you hack Kleo's terminal, you'll find a contingency plan for killing Hancock, which includes offing Fahrneheit in her sleep and then poisoning his chems, and it will make you very very sad.

Hancock woke up to someone placing sleepy kisses on the back of his neck, so he pretty much figured he was dead. Except that didn't make sense, because there was no way he got into an afterlife that felt so much like heaven. The sleepy kisses stopped with a small huff of warm air against his skin, then a chin resting on top of his head as the arm slung across his waist tightened. Who the hell was spooning him? Almost definitely not a mole rat. He looked down at the hand holding onto him with bleary eyes. Golden wedding ring. Scout never wore their ring in his dreams, which meant that this was real, which also meant—

He jerked out of Scout's grip, scrambling to get as far away from his friend as he could. The Sole woke up with a start, already reaching for him again before their eyes had even fully opened. Hancock pressed himself back against the far wall and tried to yell for Fahrenheit, but his mouth was too dry, and all that came out was an unintelligible croak.

“Hey, Hancock.” Scout sat up and spoke softly, like he was a frightened animal. “It's all right.”

“Feral,” he gasped out.

“No, you're not,” Scout immediately replied. “Ghouls don't just turn feral, you know that.”

“Went feral,” Hancock insisted. “I—I killed …”

Scout instinctively reached for him again, to draw him close and make it all better, and he flinched back against the wall. They dropped their hand and clenched their jaw for a moment before they spoke.

“You didn't kill that woman,” they said. “Nick scanned the bite marks on her and compared them to your dental records.”

“My …” Hancock blinked and shook his head. Goddamn, being sober was horrible. “My what?”

“Curie knows what your teeth look like from the physical she gave you a couple months ago,” Scout explained.

“I know what dental means,” Hancock snapped.

Fuck, his head hurt. And why did he feel so exhausted? He'd just woken up. Was this why ferals laid on the ground not doing anything? He felt like he could sleep for days, but he had the suspicion that he'd been out for that long already.

Scout stayed patient. “Your teeth don't match up to the bite marks. There were other footprints at the scene. Dogmeat tracked down the scents of two other men—”

“I attacked Danse,” Hancock interrupted. “I've been this way for weeks. I'm going feral.”

“Your chems were tampered with,” Scout said.

The world narrowed around Hancock like he'd just took a hit of Jet. His chems … he knew about Kleo's little contingency plan, had honestly been more concerned for Fahrenheit. Told his bodyguard to sleep lightly and keep an eye on the assaultron. But he hadn't changed much himself. It wasn't that he wanted to die, it was just—well, if Kleo ever felt the need to take him out, that wouldn't be the worst thing. That's what he'd done to the old mayor, so it only felt fitting for him to be done in too if he didn't serve his citizens.

But he hadn't counted on Scout. He'd figured if anyone messed with his chems, he'd just OD and that would be it. He'd almost hurt Scout though. And almost as bad, Danse had been right. His chem usage had turned out to be an exploitable weakness. What if he took Scout? What if that was someone else's contingency plan for Scout? Fuck with his chems, make him go wild, turn him loose on Scout.

Hancock leaned over and heaved, but there wasn't anything in his stomach to throw up. Scout got his bucket next to him in record time though, and the second heave managed to bring up a bit of pale liquid. Hewas an old pro at waking up and throwing up, and he didn't have any hair left to hold back, so the episode was over quickly. Scout offered him some water to rinse and spit, but they stopped him from drinking too much at once. It seemed his stomach had shrunk to the size of a walnut. And he was still fucking sober.

“You listening to me now?” Scout asked softly. “You're not feral. Your Mentats were mixed with an old pre-war drug. Basically powdered Psycho. The detox was hell, but now that you're off of it, you'll be fine.”

So he'd been fucking himself up for two weeks, each time he popped one of his favorite little chems. Whoever did this knew him, knew what he liked. The best way to keep him hopped up for a long, slow period of time.

“Who?” Hancock rasped when he got his breath back.

“It wasn't Danse,” Scout said, a bit defensively. “Nick made him go through a polygraph. Measured his breathing and heart rate and like, sweat and stuff while he interrogated him.”

“Glad your little boyfriend is all right,” Hancock muttered, unable to help himself.

“What?”

He looked at the floor, refusing to make eye contact with Scout. That had been petty and he knew it. But to be entirely fair he was sober. If he was a good person all on his own, he wouldn't use the chems.

“Seriously, what?” Scout asked again.

Hancock toyed with a splinter of wood cracking up from the floorboards. “The one you made your little club with in the workshop so you could spend all your time together.”

“I don't spend all my time with Danse,” Scout protested.

Hancock finally looked up. “You're always in the workshop. Modding weapons, armor, making stuff for the settlers. Hell, your room is right next to it and you only have a room because Preston moved your sleeping bag in there and chased you out of the workshop each night so you wouldn't keep sleeping there.”

Scout's face slowly adopted a more and more guilty expression as that sunk in. “And I banned you from—crap. I didn't mean it like that.”

Hancock shrugged. “S'fine.”

“It obviously isn't.”

He didn't reply.

“I just—” Scout stopped and sighed. “I don't mean to hide away in the workshop, and it really doesn't have anything to do with Danse. I stay there because … I need to stay close, but I can't go inside.”

“Go in where?” Hancock asked.

This time Scout dropped eye contact to look at the floor. “Across the street.”

Hancock frowned. The only thing across the street was his house. His house wasn't—his thoughts stuttered to a stop as he remembered the room next to his. A crib. His bedroom was right across from the room with a crib and Scout said Shaun had been less than a year old and shit. Shit, shit, fuck.

“I'm living in your house?” he asked out loud.

Scout dragged their eyes back up from the floor to look at him again. “It should be lived in. Someone should keep it nice. And I'd like to move back in someday.”

“Hey, you just say the word, and I can find someplace else,” Hancock told them.

“No.” Scout winced and shook their head. “That's why I kept sleeping in the workshop at first. I couldn't—I can't be in that house alone. It'd be nice if you stayed. If you don't mind.”

“Shit no, I don't—” Hancock broke off in to a yawn. “Fuck, how long have I been out? I still feel like I got tramped by a herd of brahmin.”

“Couple of days,” Scout answered. “Spent most of them throwing up, going through withdrawal. You're on addictol and a really small dose of Med-X right now. It's been long enough that you can have another shot if you want to go back to sleep.”

“Yeah. You can go …” Hancock waved his hand, sure Scout had something they could be doing instead of babysitting him.

Scout snorted. “It's three in the morning. The only place I'm going is back to sleep, and I'm trying to get you to do the same so I can have a snuggle buddy.”

Hancock's scarred skin hid what would have been a blush, and he played it cool. “Well, if you insist.”

Scout grinned, not buying it for a second. “Yeah, I do. C'mon.”

They helped him scoot-crawl back over to the mattress, and he flopped back down with a grateful groan, which turned somewhat wanting when he spotted the Med-X vial in Scout's hand. 

“Am I supposed to be your sexy nurse now?” they asked with a grin.

“Check my prostate,” Hancock mumbled back, close to passing out even without the chem.

Scout laughed so hard they doubled over, their forehead resting against his shoulder for a moment while their own shoulders shook.

“You're the worst,” they said when they finally stopped laughing.

Hancock hummed in agreement, pointedly holding out his arm. Scout rolled their eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. I got you.”

They squirted out a little bit of the Med-X to be sure there wasn't an air in the needle and found one of his veins on the first try, even through his leathery skin. Hancock hazily wondered if the insides of their own elbows might have a couple of tracks beneath the vault suit sleeves. Then Scout laid down next to him, pulling his body close to spoon him again. They really weren't kidding about that cuddle buddy thing. The room was silent for a few minutes before Hancock had to ask.

“The guy who fucked with my chems,” he began slowly, voice thick from exhaustion and the Med-X. “Didn't say who.”

“Travis, that same guy who wanted all the ghouls kicked out a couple of months ago,” Scout said. "Since I shut that down, he figured he'd make everyone think you'd turned feral to prove how dangerous ghouls are."

Dammit. Hancock knew that asshole needed to be watched, but he hadn't figured on something like this.

“Fahrenheit is taking care of it,” they added.

Hancock nodded. “Remind me …” He yawned. “… up her raise.”

Scout grinned against the back of his neck. “Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's actually a lot of setup for this! If you read The Bullshit Horn in this same series (OTP: Coat-Coat, Murder) you can see Travis's first attempt at fucking up Hancock's life.
> 
> UP NEXT: Scout literally feeds Travis his own leg because they are a precious murder baby. Hancock is both worried for them and a little bit flattered (read: aroused) ...


	5. Getting Even

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hancock finally recovers enough to address the concerns of his citizens and Scout does in fact feed Travis his own leg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So some possible trigger warnings again for graphic violence, but it's still only discussed and not really shown. Also, lots of talk about drug use.

Hancock woke up to an empty mattress for the first time in a couple of days. Scout had been sleeping with him each night, claiming that they got cold and needed a snuggle buddy, that he needed someone to watch him in case he started puking again, that they'd been really worried about him and wanted to stay close, please Hancock? And then the big eyes and the pleading smoothskin face and Hancock caved each time like an old mine shaft. Fahrenheit smirked at him each time he couldn't say no to Scout. She thought it was hilarious, the dirty traitor.

But he should have expected Scout to bail sooner or later. There were only so many times they could wake up and see his face first thing in the morning before they decided to find new sleeping arrangements. He couldn't really blame them. If he had to wake up and look at himself first thing, he'd—well. That's how he got this way in the first place, by being willing to do anything not to recognize the man in the mirror anymore.

“Quit fucking moping.” 

A rolled up Boston Bugle landed on his face, almost putting out one of his eyes. Hancock batted it off and flopped over onto his side so he wouldn't have to make eye contact with Fahrenheit and her exasperated you're-such-a-dumb-asshole expression.

“Your little datemate just went down to the kitchen,” she told him. “They probably wanted breakfast or something. Stop being such a goddamn drama queen.”

Hancock sat up and glared at her. “That's drama _mayor_ to you.”

Fahrenheit pointed at the door. “Go. You're even harder to look at when you're sad.”

Hancock stood up, and his vision went black for a moment. Turns out spending three days on a stimulent-depressant bender from hell and then the next three puking his stomach lining out took a lot more out of him than he thought. And he did it all sober. Well, semi-sober, but a little bit of Med-X never hurt anyone. Compared to how much he was usually on, he was practically pure as snow at the moment. Fahrenheit frowned when she noticed him wobble for a second, and she started to stand up, but Hancock waved her down. They didn't ever need to repeat or speak of her carrying him bridal style. Ever.

“I'm fine,” he said, grabbing his coat and shrugging it on. “I need to get up and actually do something anyway. Laying around ain't nearly as fun sober.”

Fahrenheit considered him for another moment, but then she nodded and went back to cleaning her nails with her knife. Hancock grabbed his hat on the way out and made it all the way down the first flight of stairs before one of the Watch spotted him. Paul? Or Greg? Shit, he could remember faces, even ghoul faces, but he couldn't remember names worth a damn.

“Hey, you actually are alive,” Paul-Greg said. “Matt owes me twenty caps. I knew Fahrenheit wouldn't ever make a play like that.”

Hancock snorted. “The concern for your mayor is touching.”

Paul-Gred shrugged. “You wouldn't die on us. You're too—hey, Matt! C'mere, you owe me twenty caps. Told you Mayor Hancock would be fine.”

Another Neighborhood Watch ghoul hurried over, a grin stretching his scarred skin. “Well I'll be fucked by a deathclaw. You pulled through.”

“Haven't met a high I haven't rode through yet,” Hancock said.

The two Watch guards laughed, and he leaned against the banister, hoping it looked casual and not like standing up for a whole three minutes had exhausted him.

“What the fuck were you on, man?” Paul-Greg asked. “We heard you went on a three day bender.”

“Yeah, and you were still fucked up when you came here to crash,” Matt added. “I've never seen someone come off a high that hard.”

Paul-Greg nodded. “Did you really have to get sober just to come down from it?”

Hancock waited for the rush of questions to end. So that's what had been making the rumor rounds. Not too far from the truth, actually. Best to brush off that whole “the mayor thought he went feral business” with a good story about a bad trip anyhow.

“Found myself a stash of some pre-war drugs and took 'em just to see what would happen,” Hancock said, then he grinned and shrugged. “ _That_ happened.”

“Shit,” Paul-Greg whispered in awe.

“There any left?” Matt asked.

Hancock shook his head. “Nah. You know I'm not the type to keep good stuff to myself, but it turns out that pre-war shit is a fucking doozy. I thought there was only enough for me, but I coulda passed that shit out to the whole town and gotten us all fucked up.”

Matt sighed. “Damn.”

“You must've taken enough for a whole town,” Paul-Greg said. “That cute French doll was talking about your heart fucking stopping or something.”

“Yeah, that could have happened,” Hancock said in a no-big-deal voice. “But you know me. I can handle my shit.”

Paul-Greg gave a whistle of admiration as another set of footsteps sounded on the stairs. Hancock glanced over to see Scout coming up, holding a plate with a towel over it. Matt sniffed the air and eyed the plate with interest. Whatever kind of meat that was, it smelled damn good.

“Hey, you make something?” Matt asked.

“This isn't for you,” Scout told him.

Hancock grinned at them. “Aw, sunshine, for me? You shouldn't have.”

“I didn't,” Scout said with a sheepish look. “But um, Preston is around here somewhere and he knows how to cook if you're hungry.”

Hancock frowned. “Then who's that for?”

“You know how I said Fahrenheit was handling the Travis problem?” Scout asked, waiting for him to nod before they continued. “He's being held in one of those warehouses I cleaned out for you.”

Hancock's scowl deepened. “And you're feeding him?”

Paul-Greg managed to lift one of the corners of the towel before Scout batted his hand away, and he took a step back with a yelp when he saw what it was.

“Is that a fucking leg?” he demanded.

Hancock turned to look back at Scout, who shrugged unapologetically.

“He hasn't had anything else to eat for a couple of days now,” they said. “Fahr and I have a twenty cap bet going on how many of his limbs I can feed him.”

The three men went silent, Paul-Greg and Matt looking nervously between the Sole and Hancock. Yeah, he put the hurting on the ones who needed it, but that was some pretty fucked up shit Scout just said, and he wasn't sure if that's the sort of thing he wanted brought into Goodneighbor. And from what Scout had told him about their past life in the mafia, he also doubted if them getting back into the swing of torturing people would be good for them, either.

“Listen, he started this in my settlement, and he was only able to make trouble now because I didn't do a good enough job keeping an eye on him,” Scout said. “He's my responsibility, and this is how I'm handling it.”

“And what about doing better and what Nate would have wanted?” Hancock asked quietly.

Scout gave him a tight smile. “This is the doing better option. He hurt … my friend. The old me would have fed him pieces of his various family members.”

“Shit,” Paul-Greg muttered, then gulped hard and shut up when that drew Scout and Hancock's attention. The two Watch guards didn't know what friend Scout was talking about, and Hancock decided it'd be better to have this conversation with Scout a bit more privately.

“I'm back, I'm fine, go see if Fahrenheit needs anything,” he told them.

They both hurried off immediately, Matt casting one last glance back at the plate and shuddering before he left. Hancock turned back to Scout, who had a stubborn set to their jaw.

“This is fucked up and you know it,” he said.

“He's the one who started the psychological mind games when he made you think you were feral,” Scout hissed. “Fahrenheit had to listen to you beg her to kill you. I had to tell Cait to get rid of a body, and she still doesn't have a good explanation for that. If anyone else had found out and gotten to you first, they might have killed you and you would have let them.”

Hancock tried to interrupt his Sole's tirade, but they talked right over him.

“He hurt you, and I'm gonna feed him his own fucking limbs, John,” Scout said.

Hancock stared at them, but he could tell they weren't going to back down. He didn't have much to argue against them anyway. He knew they wanted to give Cait a second chance like they got, not order her to hide a body without any explanation. And Fahrenheit … shit. She didn't exactly wear her heart on her sleeve, but he knew she cared about him and seeing him like that had to hurt. Travis hadn't just fucked with him, the asshole had fucked with his family and Scout's both.

“You feed him that one piece of leg and then put a bullet in his head,” Hancock countered.

Scout eyed him back just as hard, but this wasn't something they could get out of by batting their (long, gorgeous—shit, not the _point_ ) eyelashes, and they knew it.

“Fine,” Scout said. “I'll come back when it's done. Do you need me to do any—”

Hancock interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I'm fine. Christ, I was sick for a few days, I ain't dying.”

Scout's eyes narrowed. “You're my best friend and your life matters and I'm feeding you soup when I get back.”

“You're gonna give me a kink with all this soup feeding,” Hancock muttered.

“I think you mean complex?”

“Yeah, that too.”

Scout snorted and broke out into a grin before leaning forward and kissing Hancock lightly on the lips. He didn't have a chance to react, and he stayed stunned into silence when they pulled back.

“Don't push yourself or anything while I'm gone,” they told him. “Curie analyzed the rest of your chems, and they're all good, but maybe take it easy.”

Hancock blinked and forced himself to say something back. “All right.”

“I'll be back soon, love you, bye!”

Scout flounced out the door like they were off to go on a Sunday stroll, not feed a man part of his own leg. Also like they hadn't just kissed him and said they loved him. Hancock shook his head to clear his thoughts. He'd heard them say I love you to their other friends lots of times. Preston, Nick, Deacon, Piper, even Cait once, although she'd turned bright red and threatened to knock them the fuck out if they kept up that sappy bullshit. And of course they told Dogmeat they loved her all the time. So they didn't mean it like that.

“You gonna stand there all day like you just creamed your trousers?” Fahrenheit called, leaning over the railing on the second floor to look down at him.

Hancock flipped her off automatically before he finally shook himself out of his daze. He was way too sober for this shit, and it was definitely time for his next shot of Med-X. Maybe if he took a short nap too, Fahrenheit would let him back into his office and he could start catching up on his mayoral duties.

Maybe if he threw himself hard enough into that, he'd stop feeling Scout's lips pressed against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm actually going to end this here. The next fic I add to this series will also be multiple chapters and take place about two weeks after this, where Scout and Hancock are finally forced to confess their feelings. So that will wrap this whole thing up super nicely, and I can't wait to get started on it!

**Author's Note:**

> Wail, my sinnamon rolls! Scream out your angst and frustration, it's only going to hurt more from here ...


End file.
